Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century)

by Priest, Cherie

  But the editor said, “If I understand what I’m reading, there’s concern for the whole damn continent. I understand your desire to protect the Lincolns, but isn’t getting the evidence out more important in this case? If you’re serious about this—”

  “What do you mean, if?” Gideon asked, annoyed, and now somewhat inexplicably anxious. Something about being in this office, on the verge of going so very public. Something about making a shout like this—a shout to the whole world—and knowing that the world might not listen.

  Wellers also went on the defensive. “Are you trying to say you don’t believe us?”

  Sherwood Jones sighed and shook his head. “The awful thing is, I do believe you. Or, if nothing else, I think you’re on to something. It might not be such a big something; perhaps this is just another one of those things like typhoid or cholera or consumption that is making the rounds through the ranks these days. But I’m hearing about it more and more. Everybody’s hearing about it. We’re already running a piece or two a month on the subject.”

  “I read the most recent one,” Wellers said. “You talked to a colleague of mine—or, your reporter did, at any rate—wanting to know the medical details of the situation. Not all newspapers are so precise with their facts.”

  “Dr. Harper, yes. Might’ve known he was a friend of yours. See, we get letters and telegrams all the time from people asking what we know about it and if we’ll do a more in-depth investigation. I’m aware of the scope and I’d love to do another exposé, but I lost a reporter to the project this past fall. He went to the front and didn’t come back. The fellow I sent after him said everyone gave a different version of how he’d died, and he didn’t know who to believe.”

  Gideon frowned. “Why would anyone lie about such a thing? It’s a public menace! I don’t understand how people can just … bury their heads in the sand, and pray it’ll all blow over.”

  But the editor shook his head. “It’s not that simple. People are afraid, yes—and the people who are closest to the situation don’t want to frighten anyone further.”

  “Leaving people unprepared and uninformed is better?” Gideon asked incredulously.

  “How would they prepare for something like this? If we tell people that the walking dead are coming, and we don’t know why but there’s nothing we can do about it, it would only spread panic.”

  Nelson Wellers tried to see it both ways. “I understand what you’re saying. It’s true that there’s no preventative or cure yet. But it’s as Gideon said: Silence will not protect us. The plague is spread through a substance, and death also travels by direct contact with the victims. If nothing else, we can warn people to stay clear of the infected. At present, they’re being treated like patients, often mixed in with a hospital’s general population. We are reaching a time when we must consider them enemy adversaries, and segregate them instead.”

  “But this letter…” Jones gazed down at it nervously—but not despondently, or so Gideon thought. A gleam in the older man’s eye said that he sensed some glimmer of possibility, but was torn. “You’re brushing up against that truth, but don’t state it outright. This letter could change everything. Or, if it is believed by enough people in enough places, it could lead to mass hysteria.”

  “Then let it,” Gideon said coldly. “I’d rather see hysteria than ignorance. Hysteria, at least, has motive and agency.”

  “Blind motive. Blind agency,” the editor corrected. “There are ethical guidelines about this sort of thing, for language that incites violence.” Gideon leaned forward to interrupt, but Jones held up his hand, begging indulgence. “Which is why I will print this, but on one condition: Wellers, you must write me a companion piece. Write me a letter as a doctor, explaining what we know, little as it may be. We must give the people a plan, or else we are only seeding terror, and I won’t have that.”

  “A plan? Jones, it’s as I said—”

  “Say it again. Write it down.” He pushed a pen across his desk, and followed it with a few sheets of paper from his top desk drawer. “If all you can give are your qualifications and your suggestion to avoid the infected, then that’s a start. Warn people against the bites. Give them some hope that this can be managed. To do otherwise would be cruel and unhelpful.”

  Gideon was not entirely happy, but he found it difficult to argue with that. “Cruelty can be effective. For the world’s own good, we must frighten it awake.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. But we won’t scare the city awake just to witness its own slaughter. Most people would rather die fighting than screaming.”

  “It’s fine, Gideon. I’ll do it,” Wellers said, picking up the pen. “I’ll write it, and he’ll run it, and the word will get out. Just give me a few minutes. It won’t take longer than that, for I have little to contribute to the effort.”

  As Wellers wrote, scratching the pen’s quill across the page and pausing occasionally to refresh its ink, Sherwood Jones positively quivered, giving the lie to his former reserve. To Gideon, he said, “This is the break we’ve needed—an educated assessment that ties the facts together. For years we’ve heard rumors about what the saffron does to people, but its extent has been difficult to calculate. And here, in this office, when such things are discussed … well, the press is free, but some people think you get what you pay for.”

  “What do you mean?” Wellers murmured, without looking up from his letter.

  “I’m saying that this needs to come from men of science, not men of words. A man of words can say anything, and mean nothing. But a doctor must do good, or at least do no harm. I’m ill qualified to do either one.”

  On their way out of the editor’s office, Gideon felt something like optimism for the first time since the Fiddlehead had been attacked. It crept up on him, and he even smiled as Jones stomped happily off to the press.

  “You think it’ll work? You really think he’ll run it?” Gideon asked Wellers.

  “Is that a rhetorical question? I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you ask one of those. Didn’t you once say that such queries were a pox upon serious conversation?”

  “Do you ever forget anything?”

  “About as often as you do,” Wellers said with a cocky lift of his eyebrow. “But don’t worry about Sherwood holding up his end of the bargain. He’ll print it, and people will read it, and then they’ll know. Of course, what they do with the information is up to them.”

  Gideon watched the editor disappear around the corner. “Douglass believes that educated people are powerful people. Let’s hope he’s right.”

  “And let’s hope we’re stopping a war, not starting a riot.”

  “Wellers? Is that you?” asked a voice from beside the front desk, where a receptionist in a prim uniform directed incoming visitors. A young man leaned over her, sorting through a stack of telegram slips. He grinned and waved. “And Dr.… Barksdale? Bardstown?”

  “Bardsley,” Gideon supplied.

  “Bardsley, that’s right. My apologies.” He riffled through the papers, selected a couple, and approached them.

  “Hello there, Timothy,” Wellers greeted him. “Still running errands for Western Union?”

  “That I am, doctor. That I am. And you two gentlemen can help shorten my workday, if you’re feeling so disposed and the stars align correctly. Is there any chance you’re headed over to the Lincoln estate?”

  “As soon as we leave here,” Wellers said. Gideon wanted to argue, but he didn’t have a better destination in mind, so he didn’t.

  “Then I hope you could be persuaded to take a couple of messages along with you. I know the old president trusts you with his security, so I believe he’d trust you with his telegrams.”

  “I expect you’re right about that,” said Wellers, taking them. “We’ll hand them over within the hour.”

  On the carriage ride back, the doctor and the scientist examined the messages. They were brief and not in envelopes, so it was difficult to avoid seeing the contents. Besi
des, if the messages were private, they would’ve come and gone via courier, not the junior runner at Western Union.

  One was a note from a foreign ambassador, with thanks for a gift. The other was more interesting by far.

  REACHED BIG RIVER YESTERDAY STOP ARRIVAL IN TENNESSEE PREDICTED BY TOMORROW STOP WORD FROM LOOKOUT ALL IS WELL STOP WILL BRING CARGO TO DC STOP EXPECT FULL SHIPMENT BY FRIDAY STOP

  “Cargo. Shipment.” Wellers turned the sheet over in his hand. “Railroad terms? If so, it sounds like the Pinks think it’s safe to move your momma and Caleb.”

  “Safe as houses, if Kirby Troost is coming.”

  Wellers frowned down at the message. “Is that who sent this? It isn’t signed.”

  “That’s who sent it, I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Really? Your life?”

  Gideon gave it a second thought. “Yours, anyway.”

  “Who is this guy?” Wellers asked. “I’ve heard Lincoln mention him in passing, but I’ll be damned if I know more than his name.”

  A flash went through Gideon’s head—a memory of a very dark night, chosen for its clouds. A hushed caravan, including a baby that’d been given ether to keep it asleep. A boat waiting at the river’s edge, at Ross’s Landing. A searchlight, shining across the tar-black water.

  Gideon cleared his throat, and with it cleared away memories that had never quite faded. “You remember the Liberation Rangers? The Union’s effort to meet the railroad in the middle, and lend a hand?”

  “I remember it. Didn’t last long.”

  “No, not long, but they freed a few hundred people when all was said and done, and it was work worth doing. But Grant, or someone in his administration, decided that the program was an inefficient allocation of funds,” he said, quoting an article he’d read on the subject. “Resources were cut down to the bones, and most of the rangers were sent home. For a while they remained a very small special operations group—only the very best of them, you know—and by the end they were little more than mercenaries. But they did good things, Nelson.”

  “Were they the ones who brought you out of Tennessee?”

  Gunfire and smoke. A baby who couldn’t sleep through it, not even with the drugs. A drowning. A bomb. A mad dash that left no one behind, even for all of that.

  “Yes. A small team, hired by Mr. Lincoln. Led by a captain named Kirby Troost.” He let out a short laugh, right in time with a dip in the road that made the car lurch. His voice caught in his throat. “Funny little man. Not much to look at, but that’s partly why he was so good at his job.”

  “Was? So he’s left the business? Did Lincoln bring him out of retirement?”

  “Oh, I have no idea what he does these days. He got drummed out of the service, and the service closed down behind him. It was a bad story—made the papers around here; you might’ve seen it. He got caught up with the wife of a congressman, until she turned up murdered. Her husband tried to hang it on Troost, and had just enough money and power to make it stick. Never mind that all the evidence said it hadn’t been Troost at all.”

  “This is ringing a bell,” Wellers said, scratching at a spot behind his ear. “Was this the Cartinhour scandal?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “The wife’s own mother wouldn’t have recognized her, or that was what I heard from the doctor who served as coroner at the time.” Wellers scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “Yes, I remember it now. The subject was quite the rage, if you’re the sort to watch for gossip.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I knew about it through Mary. You know how she keeps up with these things.”

  “Oh, yes. Mary. Well.” Gideon reclined more comfortably, away from the rattling door and against a sturdy pillow. “Troost didn’t kill the congressman’s wife, and I’d bet my life on that. Cartinhour either did it himself or had it done. As for Troost, he took one last trip on the railroad, out of D.C. into God knows where. And about a year later Cartinhour himself turned up at a card table with his throat slit.”

  “Pure coincidence, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, absolutely. But apart from that one coincidence, I haven’t heard so much as a rumor about Troost in half a dozen years.”

  “You two will have some catching up to do.”

  “Eh.” Gideon gazed at the countryside zipping past out the window. “He’s not much of a talker. But he’s a quick one, and slicker than you’d ever expect. I never worried about him too much. He’s the sort of man who always lands on his feet. It’ll be good to see him.” He surprised himself to realize that he meant it. “I wonder what he’s been up to all this time.”

  Nelson Wellers shrugged. “Wait until Friday, and it sounds like you can ask him yourself.”

  Eleven

  Maria arrived at Fort Chattanooga the next morning, having slept on the train and dreamed of dead cannibals who wouldn’t stop chewing. She awoke abruptly as the train shuddered to a halt. For a moment she was flooded with relief, then she remembered that her nightmares weren’t really nightmares—not the usual, impossible kind—and the half-sleeping horror rushed back to take its place. She shook her head and wished for a spot to wash her face, have a drink of water, and flush away some of the disorientation left over from the restless night.

  But here was her stop. She needed to gather her wits and the nurse’s papers and get back to business.

  Sleeping on trains was never something she enjoyed, and now, more than ever, she wished there’d been some alternative. She stumbled half awake down the steps and onto the platform, then went toward the station bleary-eyed, all the while watching to see if anyone had followed her here, or if anyone was waiting to pick up the chase. It felt like too many things to concentrate on at once. In the back of her mind she feared that an entire battalion of rogue agents could be on her tail and she might’ve slept right through them picking up her scent.

  “Miss Boyd!” a familiar voice called.

  It stopped her in her tracks. After a flash of panic, she saw the speaker and recognized him as a friend rather than foe. It surprised her enough to jolt her more fully awake. “Mr. Epperson?”

  “Henry, please!” he suggested for what must have been the dozenth time. Jostling against the flow of the debarking passengers, he swam the short distance toward her—hand up, waving in her general direction. Upon reaching her, he touched the front of his hat and said, a little out of breath, “I’m glad I caught the right train. There are two others coming in from Richmond today, and I didn’t know which one you’d taken. I heard there was an incident at the hospital. What happened?”

  She sighed wearily. “I’ll tell you over breakfast, if we can find a spot that’s quiet enough.” She glanced around the station and saw nothing promising, so she asked, “Do you know of a place where we could get a bite to eat? Perhaps some coffee? I don’t know the city at all.”

  “I do know of a place, yes. It’s just across the street.”

  As promised, across the street was a small café that specialized in tea and baked goods, but also offered a light breakfast. Maria attempted to make note of the expense in order to bill the Pinks later, but Henry wasn’t having it, and he bought the morning meal for them both.

  At a small table in the big front window, they warmed themselves with coffee and waited for their food. The street outside was crowded with people, mostly train travelers and soldiers, for this was a military garrison, after all. In fact, if Maria remembered correctly, at least some portion of the city was walled.

  Just like Seattle, the thought flickered through her head.

  Since Henry was more familiar with the locale than Maria, she asked him. “I understand this fort has a wall around it. Is that right?”

  “Most of it. The Tennessee River curves through the city, cutting it in half. There’s a wall around the south side—the military and industrial complex, where we are right now—that starts at one point on the river and ends at Moccasin Bend, near the foot of Lookout Moun
tain.”

  She struggled to picture it. “So, basically, the southern end of the city is ringed by the river on one side, and the wall around the rest?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s about right.”

  “And Lookout Mountain…” Her question trailed off as a serving girl put two plates in front of them. Maria had eggs and toast. Henry settled for biscuits with honey and a side of bacon. “Lookout Mountain,” she began again, snapping her napkin open and placing it across her lap. “That’s where our friend’s family is taking vacation, correct?”

  “Correct,” he said discreetly. “Near there, at any rate.”

  “Within the wall?”

  “Just outside it, I should think.”

  They kept the conversation chatty and open, lest anyone overhear and think they were whispering about something interesting. “Perhaps we should pay them a visit before we leave town,” she suggested.

  He spread a big pat of butter across the nearest biscuit. “That might be fun. In fact, I’m here on a mission from their favorite uncle because I need a word with their porter. I have paperwork they’ll require, and expenses for the road.”

  “How kind of their uncle,” she murmured around a sip of coffee, assuming they spoke of Lincoln.

  “He’s a kind man indeed.” Henry let his gaze slip around the room, checking to see if anyone might be listening. No one showed any undue interest, but there were still several people within hearing range: two serving girls, another pair of customers, and the old woman who took orders at the counter.

  Maria saw what Henry was doing, and came to the same conclusion. It wasn’t safe to speak openly, not quite yet. So they chatted idly about nothing in particular until the room had cleared, leaving only the counter woman, who was engrossed in the daily paper on the other side of the shop.

  Finally, Henry leaned in, the gesture charmingly, deliberately calibrated to look like flirtation. “The hospital,” he prompted. “What happened there?”

  It was Maria’s rather well-informed opinion that Henry did “flirtatious” very nicely. She leaned forward to meet his intimately styled invitation, and replied in a similar tone. “The captain was most accommodating. She gave me a gift on my way out the door, but someone else wanted it. Badly. A firefight broke out in the surgical ward. I escaped.”